


accarezzevole

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Guitars, Intimacy, Naked Female Clothed Male
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7259209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has a hands-on approach to teaching Clara about music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	accarezzevole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antennapedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antennapedia/gifts).



> From your prompt: "hands: on guitar strings, on the back of her neck, elsewhere."

Sometimes when the running gets to be too much, it's nice to just pause for awhile. They're sitting in Clara's bed, propped up against fluffy white pillows, a few blankets scattered about. The Doctor is playing guitar for her. He's traded electric for acoustic, strumming quietly. Clara leans up against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and asks him what he's playing. Usually it's a selection from the sixties or seventies (this old punk of hers), but tonight the music is unfamiliar. It's sweet, gentle, and warm-feeling, but also with a lower and more interesting resonance underneath.

He explains that it's something new he's been working on. "It's for you."

She's touched beyond words. As he continues to play, she realises somehow that the song does indeed sound like her. He's captured her essence and turned it into music. "How did you compose it?" she asks.

"I'll show you." He moves the guitar just out of the way before picking her up and setting her between his legs, resting the guitar on her lap so they can hold it together. She feels very small all of a sudden. His hand holding hers over the finger board. She gives a cautious strum. The notes come out all jangly, but he doesn't laugh at her. Instead, he shows her how and where to position her hands. Simple chords, the slight give of the stiff guitar strings. He handles it like the guitar is just part of himself, a natural extension of the way he thinks. Clara isn't there yet: the instrument seems foreign to her still. But she wants to understand him, so she gives it another try.

She's so focused on what she'is doing that it takes several moments for her to realise that the Doctor is brushing her hair off her neck with a gentle hand. Soft, but bringing with it sensation, like notes trailing behind a chord. When he kisses down the same path his fingers just left, Clara shivers.

"Composing is very easy," he says, voice low and serious just under her ear as he lifts the guitar out of her hands and leans it against the bed. Bass notes reverberating in his chest. "You just have to find something that moves you." He goes back to stroking her neck, fingers light over her pulse. Clara's eyes go a little unfocused and he smiles down at her, kissing her neck again.

Then he traces the curve of her breasts in a meandering sort of way. "Perhaps you start out very, very slowly." Brushing over her nipples. A touch that is so very light but that she can still feel through her clothes, sending a burning jolt of electricity all down her spine. "Something to draw you in when the song starts."

"But really it's best when there are fewer barriers between the musician and the audience." He unbuttons her pyjama shirt and she wants him to move faster, play her harder. But he continues his leisurely pace, taking his time undoing each button. Her shirt hangs open, then, giving him better access as he twists her nipples into hard and responsive points. Clara bites down on a whimper and relaxes back into the warmth of his hoodie, listens to the comforting metronome beat of his hearts at her back. He continues to twist and it's like he's tuning her. She can't help it: it works and she lets out a squeak.

The Doctor wanders his hands along her clavicle before dipping lower to pluck at her nipples again and she whimpers at his touch, how the pads of his fingers have been made rough from playing guitar for so long. "Sometimes there's standard format to songs," he explains as if unaware of how Clara is starting to squirm. “A descending bassline..." he continues, skimming his hands downwards, resting them briefly on her ribs, her stomach. "...played at the same pitch and repeated as many times as you want..." Migrating even lower to find the curve of her waist, settling there before he continues onward to feel between her legs. Palming her over the silk of her pyjama bottoms to discover for himself how hot she's getting, how she's soaking into the fabric - so much so that his fingertips come away damp. "...but of course, separated by a short bridge." He heads back up, then, to twist at her nipples again - still stiff but somehow also pliant, and Clara lets out a sighing moan when he gives them an experimental pull.

It isn't long before he's got her lifting her hips so he can take off her underwear, her pyjama bottoms. Abandoning them off the side of the bed, next to the guitar. It makes her feel shivery-hot and vulnerable, how he's still dressed and holding onto her but she's naked like this. He skirts his hands up and down her thighs. Teasing: so near to where she wants him most, but moving away again before he gets there.

"But sometimes you have to improvise," the Doctor continues, "because there are so many different ways to create sound - a down-stroke, for example." He cups her breast in his left hand while his right slowly moves lower to open her up and make her become hotter still, all sensitive and swollen. "Or a hammer-on." Leaving her chest, he presses hard against her clit with the fingers of his left hand, his right hand now just between her folds rubbing at her skin. Its steady throbbing pulse echoes Clara's heartbeat, which feels so loud and powerful. Like some kind of drumming counterpart to the music he's writing on her body. He's evidently pleased with the noises she's making, that he can bring out of her, so he continues. She can feel the grooves of his fingerprints all over herself, the places where he's touched her previously. His right hand sticky on her breast, dragging a little, while his left hand is still moving. Relaxing into a slow-tempo melody that she'd like to try and find too. Clara drifts one hand up to caress his neck, the other joining his between her legs. Their arms nested against each other, fingers interlaced. It gets him to rut even harder against her clit, continuing to hammer-on. Both their hands almost impossibly slick as she responds to the motion. A brief instant, another short bridge - the shock of his teeth - he's _biting_ her. It's as if things have gone from mono to stereo and she's aware of his part in this in a different way, no longer absorbed in her own pleasure.

He strokes her clit with a slow kind of tenderness that mimics the way he was playing that song for her earlier. "You see, that's thing about acoustic guitars - you have to put all your energy into the strings." Clara shudders at how he knows her so well and can just find what makes her tick, turn it into a song or something that makes her gasp and quiver against his hand. His breathing is still warm and gentle on the back of her neck, occasionally turning into a kiss. He whispers filthy things into her skin. Praising her for how wet she is. Telling - promising - her how hard he's going to make her come. And his whispers are like a vibration of sound, coming down sweet acoustic strings. Clara moans, vibrating her own sound back. She's caught up in a thrum of anticipation, her stomach tugging low.

She's so, so close and she wants to come so badly. Let the chorus stop and hit the end of the song. But he's still massaging his hand at a steady and measured tempo. Circling, circling, circling. Clara reaches for his right hand and rests it against his thigh, closing her own hand around it and giving him a tight squeeze when he finally pushes inside her. She hears little wet sopping noises as his fingers slide in smoothly. He pauses to let her adjust. "Tell me what you want," the Doctor says softly, in a tone that's almost flirty but mostly just familiar and soothing. Clara's own voice comes out all blurry and sex-drunk. "Play me, just like - " And he does, stroking deliberately deep inside her, turning her all the way up. She's dripping all over his fingers, smeary streaks that end up on her inner thighs. Clara's legs fall open a little wider as he pushes that much more forcefully against the place inside her where her nerves are most sensitive and alive. It elicits all these sighing pants that Clara doesn't recognise as her own - he's got her that strung out.

The pace of her breathing picks up into little whimpery moans. All wound up like a music box until she reaches that crescendo at last. "You're so beautiful when you come," he says, reverent. His voice sounds like it's coming from very far away: she can't think, except about the way his hand is moving. Can't breathe, except in helpless little squeaks. Open mouth and tiny, gasping breaths that rise in frequency and pitch. Arching her back, hand pressing into his thigh to almost push herself forward and farther onto his hand, chasing after the pleasure he's giving her. Her left hand at his wrist now, keeping him inside her so she can sustain these notes for as long as possible. Squeezing him, muscles flexing. Everything gone haywire like there's too much feedback.

When she finally slumps against him, sleepy and sated, he withdraws his fingers and wipes them off on his trouser leg. Then he just hugs her for awhile, listening to her heartbeat slow down and become regular again. She tilts her head up to kiss him, capturing his lips with hers. They trade kisses for awhile until she pulls back and yawns. "Time for bed." He smiles at her. "We'll have to clean you up first."

The Doctor picks her up again, gentle, cradling her head and with one arm under her knees to support her. He rests her in amongst the many blankets before wandering off to find a washcloth. When he returns Clara watches him as he works, her hair fanned out behind her on the pillow. He moves the warm washcloth over her breasts, opens her legs to clean her thighs. The gesture seems almost more intimate than what they just did. She's just warm and safe, completely taken care of. Her world feels cosy - fuzzy, even: she's already falling asleep. He notices this and sets the washcloth aside, wrapping her up in a blanket or two so she doesn't get cold.

And it's only fitting that he pick up the guitar once more to play her a quiet lullaby that will carry her off to whatever planets she's dreaming about.


End file.
